I, the Dark Lord's Immortal
by scratchmarred
Summary: “ Insanity is the climax of all sensorial stimuli. The most visible barrier between the corporeal and the ethereal.’ Dolohov's reflections on his second imprisonment to Azkban.


Author's  note: dear reader, as to your likely knowledge, this is a ficlet centered on Dolohov and his time in Azkaban after his second imprisonment. My objective in writing this up was the feeling of insanity. I apologize should his constant digression from, for instance, the current discussion with the Percy  to his recalling his first kill, or his obsessions might confuse you – it was and still is my belief that such an attitude would be only the reputed Azkaban effect. Hope you enjoy the read!

 " Insanity is the climax of all sensorial stimuli. The most visible barrier between the corporeal and the ethereal.' 

  And I'm nodding as the professor explains - on a studiedly neutral tone so contrary to his choice of words- how it is that the Cruciatus comes to dwell in one's mind in the sickening form of insanity. We're better off with the pain, I should think. 

**    "It is always demanding for the insane to acknowledge their condition. At times, their lucidity almost mirrors that of the human nature. They speak accurately. They think with mild coherence. They control themselves."**

   Insanity bears the stench of time lost, and time broken, and time forgotten. Weakness too, says Severus, having yet to alienate himself from the mask of the amiable first desk in the teacher's view student. A wonder his efforts in delivering any forms of conversation ended in a grand triumph. We both take to the definition with predatory delight – and how is it that insanity can raise such heavenly instincts?- and , indeed, we can smell it, from now on, abso-bloody-lutely smell it.

    It's insanity I smell in the Dark Lord's hesitations, in his worthless considerations of an occasion and even that can only be marked by our triumph! Get Potter, get the prophecy, to blazes with the rest, we shall be victorious! Of course I agree. We all do, even Avery, though he still needs time to reacquaint himself with the privileges of free will and conscious thought. Poor Avery, poor us, but never mind, we're off to get the prophecy.

    …and how is it I never smelled insanity in such a plan?

**  "But there are stages. There are always stages, and as a phenomenon, insanity is one of the most superb, if crude, procedures to assault our system. It commences with fixation, sometimes. Obsessions. The obsession for words, for thought, for events. For simple things, for memories. Obsessions for reality, for the fact that they can no longer grasp it to its fullest."**

    I try to move my hands, but I find I'm at a loss. A familiar clickety-click accompanies the sad attempt, and of course I recall, I always do. Clickety-click-clickety-click- clickety…like an orchestra of one tune, and even that poor. Unambitious people often have a greater capacity for happiness. I am ambitious, by nature, so I must wonder whether a particularly bland individual would be content in my place. Clickety-click.  I could try to employ some of my diplomatic abilities, but I feel they might better serve the present nourishing of my unappeased vanity.       

   I am Occlumens. The chains on my hands, the barbaric chains, do not matter. Neither does the fact that mine is the only ravishing cell with the privilege of such equipment. It's fascinating, really, the angle they've chosen, pinning my arms on the wall and chaining them there, assuring that I can't part with the dreary thing. I've never attempted escape, but somehow they feel that, since my accommodation is entirely to their latitude, they are to take no chances. Apparently, the circumstances in which they first arrested me  were somewhat involved in this deprivation of my comfort. Silly little things that they are, I can't repeat the masterful performance of those times here. To start with, there's no ghastly Longbottom brat to lullaby mine and Bellatrix' efforts. They think the chains are a reminder of my limitations, but they only express their dread that I might some day break loose. 

  So no, the chains and the peculiar position are no more than inconveniences. The clickety-click more than consoles me. In the dead of the night, I've the clickety-click to cover the whispers of the Dementors, and then the cries of their "pets", and sometimes my laughter.

   I don't laugh all that much, these days. Laughter deserted me, but laughter is also a device of the mind constrained to the present. Mine isn't, mine is the mind of the Occlumens. Legilimens too, though the first skill entertains much more requirements of a particularly well disciplined mind. I've preserved my mind intact, organized. I am OCCLUMENS and therefore at PEACE. Nothing aside this matters. I am fully pleased by knowing myself, my inner self, my extents-

** " Then there comes the confusion. The subject cannot place his emotions, his beliefs, his scale of morals, anything. There's just the sentiment of loss, of drowning in a sea of uncertainty. They lose memories. Can't remember what happened a few moments before, always need to keep count of time, in the fear that it might escape them. Their obsession now becomes the world around them. They feel they themselves are lost and cling to the world around them, as the latter is not. "**

   Today's Monday, and it's unutterably wicked. We got nicked on Friday, bloody Friday, mad Friday, and it's been ten days. I've been lurking here, a shadow of a man and a shadow of a shadow, for ten Merlin-have-them days.  No light tangles to the place, not one bit. No sound either, except for the lovely tick-tack of the chains as you push and pull and writhe with unbecoming vigor. They've little expectations – or intentions- to witness your efforts in proving you've still control. Composure's quite the implacable agent; consort with it, and you might actually live to tell the tale. So of course they find it imperative that you should be down, and locked, and muttering and moaning, and asking for mercy and claiming to wish redemption. It befits the villain of the tale, once the last has reached its end. But I'm no villain. I'm the hero. I fought, fought for my beliefs, fought devotedly when others would rather bow their heads and let their blood blemished by the promise of Squibs and non-magical alliances. It's not a massacre, it's a revolution, and I'm a revolutionary, and I'm by far the greater by comparison, for I have lived, and I'm living, and it's been ten days. 

   You can keep count easily, right now and right here, even though you're deprived of both clocks and schedules. Not much activity, any a how. Your savior, however, is accuracy. The accuracy in every move, in every breath – one would swiftly add, the accuracy of the timing by which they deliver you the revolting contents of a sickly looking plate and charitably call it your meal. Three meals a day, and then do the count. It's just an as efficient method, in all truth, but in such a milieu, one cares a bit for the macabre. And I so I don't count meals, I count the pacing, and the visits. One senses the small, cold hiss of a Dementor's hand, their luscious breaths over your shoulder. Twice a day, every day. Twenty such visits. Divide by two and you get it, the apogee of all resilience, ten days in this hell. Add another fifteen years and you pretty much get the number. And I'm alive. 

  At times I wish to give them the satisfaction of simply fading off like one of those abject candles they slide in along with the occasional scroll and quill. It's been universally decreed that all Azkaban prisoners must somehow be indebted to the Wizardry society and retain the rightful ties to the administration and blood relations. They have us write up to our families and wag our tails faithfully in obnoxiously short letters where we supposedly assure our amities that we are still alive. It's their moderate way of conveying that they understand and appreciate our generosity in waiting for our sentence and becoming a first hand treat on the Dementors' menu rather than do the done thing and end our own miserable existences.

    Dreams are no more than illusions of an undisciplined mind that would oblige in fantasies. Dreams are for the weak and represent their own mean of renouncing conventions and trickeries of etiquette. Dreams are not ambitious and they  bear no substance. The Dark Lord had an increasing aversion for dreams – they express far too much of one's most ardent inner desires.

   I had a dream these days – in it I had a wand and I'd cast the Diffindo on my wrists. 

- Clickety-click.  

   Destroy the chains.

   I want to forget.

   Inwardly. There's the promise. Clickety-click. I wish to let go.

   Why won't they let go of me? 

    Clickety-click-

**  "Then comes the desire to be noticed. No one believes them. No one takes their words into account. They have power – in fact, most of those to fall prey to insanity were men of delectable and much envied power- and they want it acknowledged. They want to be heard. They want to speak. And they find that they can't."**

   Hullo, guard. Look here.  I am an OCCLUMENS, show your obeisance, look here! Guard, Dementor, anyone, look here! I…

   Ah, hullo, Dementor. 

   No, I'm afraid I can't condone such revolting behavior, do arrange those horribly murky sleeves back on, there's a chap, and- no, I can't shake hands either, unpardonable as that may be, given how I am the host of my own four-by-four and should therefore humor my guests accordingly. Brought me supper?  There's the shadow, now, the shadow of that which you mean to induce. Events, and sentiments, to give you a bit of a treat. But I can't oblige, for all events and all sentiments are beyond my recollection. I haven't a memory. I haven't an essence. I am not yours. I am a man devouring your passion. It's a common occurrence. In comparison to them, and their hunger, and their forsaken purposes, you're the calm center, the center of balance. And before you can tell, they've already fled, and you may only discern their putrid forms in attendance to some other cell, to some other fiend and some other possibility.

   It's the first time I've seen practical results of merely possessing a skill and not enforcing it loudly with the exception of that one introductory hour spent at the Dark Lord's side. 

  Oh, there had been such an interview, no doubts on that. He'd come to me, and he'd requested an hour of my time, and would only take as much though I professed my entire life to him and his – our!- cause and his might. We discussed a variety of things, between tricks and illusions and pleasantries. I was a fascinating individual, he concluded, but at all times I could sense the probing roots of his own damnably powerful mind pestering my own. We had both kept up appearances, polite appearances. It wasn't the done thing to reproach to one's liege that they sought to extend their control mayhap just a bit too soon and a bit too far.

   He was the Dark Lord. He knew no boundaries. And he knew no defeat, though at the time of his absolute access to my memories, I had already deranged them with sufficient zeal as to muddle their course completely – and now he could only taste the bitter knowledge of getting through, and getting through most powerfully, but of only finding reflections on my perfected solution for a Transfiguration equation that had proven particularly difficult at the time.

   He provided me with the answer immediately. "A dual combination of Khawze-qo Runes."

   He laughed. I laughed. We were two minds touching, intertwining. I had been bested and done so superbly. 

   "You are an architect of concealments," he assessed, much to my satisfaction. "Lucius keeps you in high regard." This was an abysmal afterthought, and I detested it. I was to receive the Lord's blessing due to own accomplishments, not through simple-minded flatteries and not by Lucius' assistance! And I did then, at my queer eighteen, a most disappointing age, the folly of letting presumption and emotion get the better of me. He was in, and he was the Occlumens, and he rectified all the errors of my ways in an instant.

   "You are an Occlumens," he decreed," and your jealousy of Lucius or any other who do not share your education in this particular field has no foundation." I remember this fondly because it was in that year that I began Severus' instruction.  

   I had questions of my own. "Our purpose as your creatures is to defend our ideal by all means. Inelegantly put, that is."

   "You shall find, with time, that there is little elegance in truth. And that truth is no more than a romantic vision of reality. There is no truth, no right or wrong." And then he glanced at me. "But there is the reality of our cause. Blood is thick. But water bends it." A common reference, I would soon learn, amidst our many conversations. We are not, as the Ministry would have appear, the fanatics who heed neither heart nor reason. We are the ones who suffer the injustice. We are the ones exiled and forced to take measures. And the Master, well, he simply came to us at a time when no longer could one afford ignorance of one's circumstances. "Don't let the water taint the blood."

     I had tried to jest. Lighten his spirits. "What are we, then, if not knights errant?"

     "More than that, and somehow less. We are our purpose. We are our cause." A slight movement, as he reached for his wand, caused little circles of pure light to dance in the form of wayward sparkles. A habit of his. I was enthralled. "For as long as the latter exists."  

    "But it always shall!" Frail assurances. I wonder now.

    "Then, " he said, with extraordinary appeal, "then you know well what we are. What you are."

    And I nodded. Because I understood. 

   The word dawned between us.

    "I am immortal."

    It's why I cling to the Dementors, for they can bring me no harm. I am immortal, now, I'm immortal forever. 

   Word's spawned, it would seem, and I have grown myself some standing, since they don't repeat the experiment, as they do to so many others, as they would do in the beginning.

  Why? Why not return? Hum-hum as they come, though it doesn't impress me, since it doesn't matter, only my inner balance matters, and since I'm an Occlumens, I have that, and I retain all vestiges of my sanity. 

  Hum-hum. 

  Clickety-click. 

  Hum-hum. 

  Clickety-click.      

  Tea? Tea and a visitor? How remarkable! 

   My first encounter with Mister Percy Weasley can be accurately resumed in two words: bloody insensitive. 

  Firstly, there's the boy himself to be considered, and his lack of experience. And his appearance. One would think they would have obliged in some luscious blonde to bless these poor eyes – maybe they thought, however, poor Dolohov, poor lad, after all that time in that hellhole, even this mangy, scrawny red-head will come as valid temptation. Salazar, I'm the one in Azkaban, but he's the one looking it!

   "Lord Dolohov," he greets. And ah, how wonderful how, in the face of unknown and improperly calculated peril, one resorts to etiquette! It's been years since that appellative has been put to use. Good use, since Papa's influence can't well be taken into account, ghastly fiend that he was. Betrayer of his own blood. Had made a nuisance of himself by declaring his approval of Irene's commitment to a half blood. Flick-and-snap and hullo, green light, Papa! Irene, too! Betrayers of blood, the lot of them, served them right.  

 "I'm Percy Weasley. I come in the place of the Lord Minister Cornelius Fudge."

  His hands won't still themselves, and I find myself curiously enticed by the naughty play of his long fingers as they run and follow the edge of plate with unconscious fidelity. He probably descends from one of those thrice removed lineages, since his hesitations to pick the damned plate eagerly has one safely invest in thoughts that his dear Mama never had more than one fine porcelain set which she greatly urged her spawns to take great care with. I can see Mister Weasley, Mister Percy Weasley, as no more than a prick, still fidgeting with his porcelain frightfully. It's a wonder how childhood experiences tend to affect our subsequent demeanor in unexpected way. I still pluck my silverware viciously, as I did as a child, only now it's in walls and in startling visions of the damned and the spoilers of blood, rather than in one of Cook's pastries.     

 "Your name bears no further influence. It can't save you. It's dirt. Your family's stance as well. You've not earned their favor, what with recent…"  He hesitates. "…events."

He pushes his papers – it is only now that I do acknowledge his material- and eyes me distrustfully. Or so distrust it must be, since his occupation disallows it to be disinterest. A clerk like this Weasley is not probable to have seen too much of action, or intercourse. Or Azkaban, by that matter. 

   "You can't make it on your own, not out and not now – and not forever. The storm in the teacup's passed, but it's sadly ruined the porcelain."

   "Then why are you here?" Questioning look. Or so I dare venture in assuming.  

     I've always detested men of poor sight, since they've to tag along horrid glasses. 

**  "The confusion of recollections, of their chronological order, is fascinating. The mental ties that the insane make between events is not according to normal judgment – which is to say, by correlating persons or phrases or setting – but by the emotions. They recall events that caused them the same sort of emotion, the same sort of distress. They can't let go. "  **

   The girl had had glasses, and I could never distinguish the passion in her eyes. I knew it was there and I couldn't see it. Like the pain and the presence of the Clickety-clicks. You know you can move your arms in a mechanical sense, but you can't really move them. You let the thought fade away among several other recollections.

   The girl noted on this, decreed the chains inhuman. She'd only come once, so many days before, and she had requested that we be granted a few moments' solitude. In the end, she regretted this intimacy, regretted all it implied, and I much believe I had little fault with that.

   I was more than benevolent. Wanted to converse. 

   What topic, Miss Penelope Clearwater, reporter of the Daily Prophet extraordinaire? Shall we discuss the various methods of torture utilized, or perhaps you wish to exchange views on the quality of maiming hexes in comparison to lethal ones? Oh, don't shy away, miss Clearwater, surely your experience can much match my own…

   "They put you on chains because you're the only one they found tearing up flesh and drawing blood with your hands, like a Muggle," she whispers. 

    It was always so horrid, that out here, no one spoke, no one told, no one said. 

    They all whispered, or declared, or shouted, or cried, or implored.

    So much drama.

    So much useless drama.

    In my dream there was no drama. Mash and dash, Diffindo slash, and blood on the wrist. No drama. No magna cum laudae on a "goodbye, cruel world!" speech. 

    She had acquired her information. She can't have been more than a toddler at the time of my imprisonment. Someone had depicted to her the exact circumstance. Yes, I had used my hands and my teeth, like a Muggle.

   Be a rat to kill a rat. They didn't deserve the blessing of a wand, the explicit and fast end. 

   "Still, the chains ought to be removed." Scribble-scribble as she noted something down, data and paragraphs to then encompass and article she probably thought would earn her superior's satisfaction. Good girls like Miss Clearwater also thought that. "They're most cruel!"

   I told her the chains did not distress me. Nothing did. I was an Occlumens, and I had control. The word could take its plotted course to eternal damnation, and I would have my balance. Above all else, balance.

   "Yes, well, that's perfectly understanding of you, now, if you would please answer me a few questions, I-"

   - She never got to finish. It's terrible when that happens. You open your mouth, and the sounds mean to come, then they are choked back. Like a cry that's strangled. I cry like that and no one hears me. It's better. An Occlumens doesn't cry, and I am Occlumens -

   The lights fell, and the door to my cell closed, bars thundering in place and locking her, here, with me. Alone with me.

   A heartbeat. Two. 

   And then her screams burst out, like a living force that cannot be limited, cannot be held back.

   "Someone's ineffective attempts at an escape." My explanation did little to calm her. She was a shadow, a dense shadow in the pale moonlight that dawned in, and she was still screaming. "They locked everyone in to insure that there are no others who chose to idiotic bravery over sensible thought. "

     And I struck a cord with the well calculated precision that only sheer incidence may bring about – Miss Penelope Clearwater was positively livid, and probably a lover of sensible thought. She was trying to convince herself of that, of the advantages she held, but she didn't quite prevail.

   She was horrified by the dark, by the approaching hum-hums checking on all wards, and, despite all evident restraints, of me. Paranoia instilled itself beautifully. My part as the casual observer had been decided and I merely looked upon her gestures with a distaste she couldn't even envisage. My eyes were far more accustomed to poor lighting, and I could see her form. Sometimes even catch sight of her eyes when she moved towards the moonlight, and the glasses had the light reflect towards me. 

   What ghost was I to her? 

   What did she fear?

   "S-stay back!" Her fear. It bore its scent. Like insanity, almost, but perhaps not as pressing. I could feel it on my skin, her dread, as it slowly retained rightful reign over her senses and nourished my own. My hands were shackled to the wall. I couldn't move, and she was holding the wand, and my only extravagance was to keep her in full sight. I should have liked to enlighten her, indeed ,that this, everything, it oughtn't have mattered to her. It didn't to me, for I was OCCLUMENS and I was BEYOND fear.

  "Stay back!" She was still shrieking, though her reasoning, much like her presumed charm – I had taken in the guards' particularly flattering comments upon her introduction- escaped me. Beauty was marred by weakness. Fear was weakness. I did not indulge in movement. It would have been too much to ask for, though I would have done more than smile had her standing been worthier and her demeanor more equitable. But she was afraid, so of course she then snapped, "IMPERIO!"

  And it was a failure, a sheer and utter failure, much like I suspected she must have been for any respectable pureblood sires. But then – oh, your pardon- she mightn't have been of pure blood after all, and this was my one solace. 

  "There's something very curious in the cast of the Unforgivables…"  I informed her, and her awe as she partook in the few words of true significance to which I had parted ever since my second…"visit, was priceless. Still, my denouement was truthful. Experience deemed that I utter but the truth on the matter.

  "You need to _mean_ them," I say on the Imperio, and I'm still rather amused, even as she tries to curry favor with fortune and call upon all her magical endowments and Apparate, though it's still the hum-hums who let her out when they come to inspect my cell.

  "You need to _mean_ them," urges the Dark Lord, milord, on the Adeva Kadevra as he places my hand on the wand and then the full target on Elizabeth Linnet, my very first kill. 

  "You need to _mean_ them, Potter," ends Bellatrix the circle with the Cruciatus. The Unforgivable casting the Unforgivables. How quaint. Her cries echo thinly, like a web drawing in and snuffing the pleas of its captives. She's somewhere close, and I'm still waging my own battles with the Ministry demons, and I'm obliging in the sort of consideration deserved by only those of true merit – which is to say, my prime objective is cast and destroy rather than play as is my habit. There shall be time enough to play-

  Only there isn't. 

  You wake up to the truth: it's cold and it's dark and it's Azkaban.

**  "If they grow fond of their position, they become aggressive. They believe that they are not mad, but if they are treated as madmen, they might as well behave as such if only to put the offenders at their place."**

  Mister Weasley is not displeased by his tea, though I am. I wanted Earl Grey and should have received it. It is to my own stomach's welfare that I do not ponder the nature and possible identity of the watery content of my own cup.  

  "We "- authority he is deprived but that he nevertheless assumes- "are prepared to acquit you of the Kiss. So long as you admit in the official registry to be at fault in regard to the accusations you are brought." I wonder, did he even breathe in uttering that entire sentence? 

  Reckon he did. He intends to come forth as my savior, most likely. He brought me the way out. Blazes, and what a way. Betray your kind, betray your purpose. But you live. It's been fifteen years and ten days, Mister Percy Weasley, and today's Monday. I want to die, Mister Percy Weasley, DIE. Even the OCCLUMENS in ME wants to DIE. You don't offer me anything. I accepted it, this, all of it, in full knowledge of what would come.

   Death isn't a mean of reprimand, Mister Percy Weasley. It's fifteen years' worth of a Christmas card on the Ministry's part.

 My amusement must be showing. My bitterness, too.

 He places the cup down with care. I let mine fall and smash to little shiny pieces.  

 Clickety-click.

  Smash-smash.

  Clickety-click.

   Smash-smash. 

  A new orchestra. Somehow, though, it's the same sour tune.

  "You mustn't take haste with your decision-"

 "Out?"  I nod towards the door.

 "-you shall regret haste at such time-"

 My patience with him is thining. How dare he? How ruddy dare he? I had sacrificed everything. EVERYTHING. Merlin.  "Out."  

 "And you shall benefit of the Minister's entire attention tomorrow in an interview where your situation shall be cleared, and-"

  "Out!"

Merlin.

  I am…

 I am Occlumens.

  God. 

  The tea resembles mud as it crawls down my throat. I want tea. Veritable tea, in classy porcelain, not this incredibly and nauseous yellowish cupper. 

  This is not taking place.

  I want out. I can't – I can't stand this anymore. I just…I…

  I am OCCLUMENS and therefore ABOVE emotion.

  But am I above betrayal?

  I…

**_  "…and only more confusion ensues."_**

****

   "Don't' do this!"

   He's shouting, now, imparting more details on his curious nature than perhaps he'd wish to. He was the negotiator, up to this point, biding his time in the flowery tongue of a man who wishes to sound sincere but can't begin to formulate the final offer; and he was quite composed when he shared the Ministry's offer to alleviate my distress: just take the elegant way out, old boy, Percy Weasley seemed to say, accept the bargain and move on. We don't kill you, no, not if you eloquently testify against the entire meager reason for your pitiful existence! Radiant trade, isn't it? Almost as radiant as the pits of hell, and lookie here, it comes with the Minister's signature!  

   "You play with death!" And of course he finds this so wonderfully profound. But it hardly is, in all actuality. Hardly, hardly, hardly. And don't believe that one has not taken into account his boyish infatuation with my traceable wound, with the serpentish line of blood still tearing down skin of unbecoming pallor.  It's not appropriate that he should stare, no, not appropriate at all. But then, of course this entire assignment was rather not to his competence: a little imp fresh from Hogwarts, with his angst on the right and the wrong and the morality of his next pay. He hasn't the age to embark on moderation, or diplomacy or whatnot. The blood will be there, always, always there. Let him stare all he wants. It's inconceivable that one should consider conventions in these circumstances. Papa would agree, but then, papa's in his grave, likely rolling in a falsetto – 

- and her name was Elizabeth, Elizabeth Linnet and she believed her twenty years to be an obstinate impediment on that little road of professional success that's paved with glittering images.

   And she shall always be of twenty years, only now she'll be kin of the glittering images. And she'll never truly know.

   Hullo, dearest Elizabeth – Liz- darling Ellie! That's mahogany, mahogany snapped and pointed to your chest, and that's a scowl on your pretty face, a scowl of sheer and utter pain, the pain of one no longer virgin to the Cruciatus! And hullo again, darling Ellie, I'm Dolohov, and that's my mahogany wand, and this is fairly much my first task, really, and you're going to DIE now, darling Ellie, DIE.

   One's conduct must be impeccable, and one must keep from tasteless extravagances, such as liaising to Muggles, darling Ellie. Awful creatures, smelly too, don't know how you tolerate their bereaving presence, and – wedded one, you say? Tainted your fine Linnet blood, blood of a witch, and wedded one? Well, that simply won't do, Ellie darling, darling Ellie, and I much fear we shall consign the babe in your arms to oblivion too! But dismiss all fears on the matter, there shall be no stains on your fancy little carpet, the Avada leaves no marks!

   Well, Percy Weasley never had to cast the last curse on Elizabeth Linnet. Percy Weasley never witnessed the trembles of that horrible creature in its poorly tied straps and Percy Weasley's noble hearing was never bothered with the babe's last cries before he too went down the jade lit path to hell. No, Percy Weasley never had to rise and defend his ideals.

   And still, Percy Weasley now speaks to me of incurring my own death. How quaint. 

     Mister Percy Weasley leaves, and he promises to return with the Minister. 

    The door closes, and I don't hear it.

    Like in a dream.

    Like in the dream where I cut my wrists with the Diffindo.

**   "Then there's the despair. They start to understand. They can't tolerate their own insanity, so they must convince others, convince themselves that they are not mad. They think someone, something will save them…"**

   The door opens. But the Occlumens is not affected. The Occlumens solely exists unperturbed, whether the door continue in its circles or whether it goes astray. The Occlumens lives regardless of the light, and the shadows that come within. The Occlumens…I…it's hard to live. Just live.

  Percy Weasley comes in, and his curious garments suggest that his preoccupation might somehow relate to juridical boundaries. Behind him, the man, the dark man and his dark smile. They say he is the Minister. Minister of what? Deception. Too plain a word. He's hardly fit to even pertain to a class of rivals of choice. He merely opposes us, keeps us from our goal, our final goal. He's soft. Not fat soft, but soft. 

   Hum-hum.

   There are Dementors with him, and now I notice that guard has chosen to accompany them. 

   No more clickety-click as my chains are removed, ghastly chains, so good to move again. There's a very interesting detail on pain that one fails to notice up to the precise point when it has abandoned the organism completely. It pulses in those parts it has haunted even in its absence. My arms are free now, and with their newly found life comes the torrent of pain I had learned to deny when still chained up. There's blood, too, the blood Percy Weasley had been so vehemently drawn to. Its stench isn't even of blood, but insanity. I can still smell insanity.  

    The guardian looks up and introduces the dark man, the bad man.  "The Lord Minister…"  and "the Lord Minister" acquiesces my presence with a wave that has me desert the apathetic fit worthy of an Occlumens.

  I laugh. He nods. I laugh again. He's still nodding. Such a pair we make.

  "Dolohov." No more titles today? But…but I did so fancy all the propriety! "The charges you face are considerably grave." Oh, muse of my black little heart, speak you the truth? "I hear you have received word from one of our delegates."

 He's weak. Weak because he can't bear to even utter the name, Percy Weasley, a form of Percival, likely, much as that horrid Dumbledore and his frightful pet. I chastened one of the hum-hums Harry. Harry Potter.  He delivers me the scrolls and the smart quill. I suggested once that he make the ink forgotten and that I scribble in own blood, but the anticipated fury, or alarm or even disgust at such a perspective failed to announce itself. He did his trick with the humming, the raving, then went on his way. He's delightful like that, Harry Potter. He comes in, and goes out, and lets your existence in bloody ruins. I wager Harry Potter would adore a night with a soft chap like "the Lord Minister".  

  The guardian is grasping my arm far too forcefully, likely in an attempt to draw my attention; I might have taken notice before, if not for the already impressive tumult of pain to have set in that made for the "scenery" of all other impulses. I turn to the Minister. 

 "An understanding was mentioned?"

  I miss the clickety-click, though the hum-hum is still present. More so than usually. It hasn't proven too much of a bother until now, but since the beast delays, it's growing tiresome. Ought I tell the "Lord Minister"? Fudge. Such a name. Such a soft, soft name. He does not incline to translate my lack of response as one of interest and therefore continues:

 "Based solely on your conduct. Rather your-" Endurance? Flexibility? Bloody spirit? "-co-operation." 

 "I _have_ taken the lecture." From two sources, in all actuality. I loved the girl, but I loved Mister Percy Weasley, too. The girl was amusing, but Percy Weasley was mannered. He didn't try to cast the Imperius on me either. I suspect he would have failed though, failed just like she had. Children these days. They lack the good old ounce of sadism. 

  He nears me, paces through. Would my hands reach him? His neck? Strangle him? The hum-hum is close. He is here to seal my fate as either a prisoner or his next meal. My fingers are aching. They could cling on Fudge well, but he speaks, and the Adam's apple moves up and down, up and down…could I pinch it? Between my fingers? Felines can, and would, and do.

   I heard a lovely tale on felines. I can't remember how or who from. It can't have been a wizard. We don't exercise such barbaric practices. Though we should. Someone, out there, in the big shiny world of darling Ellie and her impossible child, a man instructs felines to jump and grasp and shatter all they see possess the great talent of free movement. Then they let the felines in chosen dormitories, near the sleeping man whose Adam's apple goes up and down as he breathes. The damned cats simply pick and claw at it, and he suffocates to death. Imagine all the blood. All the blood just because of a cat.

   I fancy cats. I fancy Harry Potter better.     

 "And how do you plead?"

**  _"…and when it comes to them saving themselves, they find they can't do that at all."_**

  And I now have the entirety of their attention. Their inner prayers as well. Have one confess, sign that thing, and the rest shall follow, and won't the Ministry's efficiency be ever so easily proved?

  Just say the words...

Guilty…

 And live one, in sheer expectancy of some form of mercy as they would let it frame you. They'll set you free, at one particular point, you've full confidence of that. You can repent. You can get out. It's…it's hell. The Christian hell, though I've taken great care to severe all religious ties my Muggle-lover of a sister Irene had bestowed upon me on the occasion of her christening to it. Azkaban. Harry Potter. 

  Hum-hum. Clickety-click. No more. I could be free, soon. Have my Earl Grey.

Innocent…

 My wrists hurt now. They've reddened, and though it's not the crimson of blood, I can see the slash' creation. It would be less demanding than that; less painful, too. Die for a purpose, die for an ideal, die for darling Ellie and the knowledge that you have affirmed the place of all those who share your beliefs, who follow your Master. 

  I must be delaying inconceivably. The "Lord Ministry" 's taken the expression of sheer Hufflepuff indignation. Everyone fathoms Hufflepuff weak, but their loyalty is frightening. They're feisty. Fudge would make a good Hufflepuff.

   "What sort of creature are you, you demon?" He looks to the Dementor, then back to me. "You think we shan't do it? Keep to the law? We shall, damn you, we shall!" 

   I can't explain to him. There are mysteries, mysteries beyond their comprehension. I pity on poor souls a Fudge, for I can tell they are not to blame for their handicap, for not understanding our ways and knowing to accept them as the right ways, and for not taking part in the revolution because they cannot grasp its true goal. They are as the blind – hardly to fault for gifts nature did not grant them.

  "Just – Get him!" The Dementor moves out.  "He doesn't believe us, does he?" His incense knows no boundaries. Percy Weasley has lowered his eyes, and he's feigning divine interest in his notes. What notes? There's only one thing to note, and that's my answer. And my answer isn't coming, it's choked down my throat, like all the cries that are strangled, and the fear and the pain and the- 

- and oh, Salazar protect me, the hum-hum is coming, the hum-hum is nearing-

- and Fudge is still shouting, and he doesn't understand – "If you admit to your guilt, say so, or face the final consequences!" – and I'm afraid because I can't tell right from wrong, his right, and my wrong, and I can't move my hands. I don't have my chains, and I still can't move my hands.

   And that's when the "Lord Minister" unknowingly offers me my answer, in his last euphoria of pain and fury:

   "WHAT ARE YOU?"

   And this is easy. I have always known what I am. Above a Slytherin. Above an Occlumens. Above everything else. I am weary. The Dementor's embrace is now upon me. Its breath is cold. The hum-hums are so cold. I can't remember. In the dream…what did I do in the dream? What was the dream about? I can't remember. 

 Take me.

 Please. 

  Oh. Merlin. I-                                                 

  Don't. 

  Do. 

  Salazar.

  Lips.

  Cold.

  Let me be yours.

  Sight returns to me. Fudge is still waiting for his answer. The Dementor for its meal. And I know. I finally know.

  "I am not guilty – I am immortal."

   And the Dementor closes in again, and this time it shall be forever.

   But…

  …I am what I am.

   Let none for it forsake me.

   Let none for it redeem it.

   For I am immortal.

**   "Pity the insane. They always believe themselves above all other creatures at the expense of their last shreds of humanity."**

  **Author's note part II: **If this made any sense to you, my congratulations. Between the memories of the lesson on insanity, the various recollections and the present events, I expect Dolohov's tale wasn't too clear, really. I hope it was, though. I should have liked it to be so. For the record, and since I know someone in this position already: if you are named Elizabeth or Linnet, your pardon. It is a mere coincidence and one, I hope, that shan't disturb you.


End file.
